Unfulfilled
by Akua
Summary: There was a hole in his life; what could be there to fill it?


We all have different desires and needs,  
but if we don't discover what we want from ourselves and what we stand for,  
we will live passively and unfulfilled.

_Bill Watterson_

_Disclaimer : Sherlock Holmes BBC does not belong to me._

* * *

John Watson was in the zone—or that would be how he would like to think that was how he was. It might just be numbness. He had been on the field for so long. Too long, really. He didn't know how many lives had slipped through his fingers (a lot of other things had slipped through his fingers besides lives; past girlfriends, sand, water, blood, guts—) and he didn't care to start counting now.

He went to sleep to the occasional noise of bullets firing. And he woke up to them too. He spent hours nestled away, pushing bullets in to their cartridges, occasionally getting his fingers pinched on the last bullet he'd have to shove in. His lungs were filled with gun powder and his mind was merely filled with instinct. Move here. Press there. Stitch right there.

John Watson was a solider. And he was a military doctor, sent on to the field. He spent most of his time with a gun then with his medical supplies it seemed. It wasn't that he really resented it, but he preferred his tools. His accuracy seemed to be slipping by the day. Because day in and day out he seemed to it his targets less and less when compared to before. (And by targets, he meant human beings—but he wasn't supposed to be viewing them as such because wouldn't that just be a mindful—?)

John was pulled to the ground, his feet flying out from under him as he had moved to walk by a comrade who was splaying on the ground. John landed amongst the dirt and sand with a grunt. His finger had been on the trigger, and he sent a burst of bullets up in to the air in reaction to the jarring fall. He immediately let go of the trigger, catching his breath back as he flipped the safety on.

He turned his eyes and looked to the solider that was on the ground, the one that had pulled him off of his feet.

"You almost got shot, Doctor." John wasn't really a name to his unit. People came and go but John seemed to have the luck of the devil. He remained even as those around him were shot. Some were killed, some were shipped out.

John let out a huff of air as he glanced up and over the barricade they were situated behind. For a moment, his body ached in sympathy to the idea of getting shot before he shook his head and shook the feeling away. "Thanks."

They didn't look at each other as John rolled on to his belly and crawled away under the hail of gunfire. Someone had screamed over here—and a moment later there was a cry for the doctor. And John went and answered. He only had a month left of this before his break. This was his second tour—he was signed up for a third.

… the sand was never ending. The sun was blistering hot. The blood was bright and red and reflective—and for a moment, John almost wished he had been taken out by a bullet just to make the dying sobs (five shots to the gut, two in the leg, at least one major artery was cut and by the time John got there, he was already almost done bleeding out) stop. But that moment went away.

John was a soldier first. A doctor second. And he had his own job to do.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was unsurprised over the fact that he couldn't seem to attain a flat mate. Sure, plenty had come to meet him. But Sherlock knew the opinions of others about himself. And normally shortly afterward he'd watch an eye crinkle or a hand would twitch in just the right way to give clue to the potential's body language that would scream that they had changed their mind.

He just wished that when they changed their minds, that they would just up and leave instead of sticking around and then politely parting to 'think it over'. These people were all dull and so easy to read.

He was tired of this. Tired of searching. Tired of looking… And in the end, he stopped looking. And people stopped coming. But that was fine. Sherlock had never gotten along with other people anyway.

* * *

Molly Hooper was getting easier to read with each advance she tired—dull.

* * *

Lestrade's case of serial suicides was a definite brain tease. Although Anderson rather annoyed him throughout the entire time that he examined the body. And for the most part that man had been out of the room.

Rache—what a _dull_, small little mind that man had.

Rachel—now, that was something interesting. Left hand. The woman had clawed it in to the floor. Sideways to the grain. Sherlock paused minutely within his investigation and glanced up across from him to the other side of the woman.

A chill had just run up his back. He wondered what for… for only a moment. And he turned his eyes back down to the woman. A serial adulteress…

* * *

He had found the case. He had texted the cell phone number (with a Molly Hooper's cell phone) and he knew that this serial killer had thought himself so clever. He had thought he had caught the man in the back of a cab, but that had been a false lead…

* * *

As the brushed the pill against the bottom of his lip, his mind—the ever active and ever thinking organ that it was—was going miles a minute. He was sure beyond reason that this pill was the one that was the harmless one. He was so, so sure. But there was the chance (_oh, he hated chance!_) that it was the dangerous one. There was still the chance that both of them were poisoned (the blasted cabbie didn't have much to lose).

But these thoughts gave pause as the world stilled.

And the pill slipped in to his mouth, down his throat. He watched the cabbie do the same. They stilled then, eyes locked. But even in this moment of stillness, Sherlock's mind was a roiling ocean of thoughts as he brain went in to overdrive.

There was nothing left to say at this point—wait. Wait. _Wait._ It was all about waiting.

And they waited.

And then the cabbie suddenly hunched forward as if in pain.

And Sherlock Holmes smirked—as expected.

* * *

The cabbie was dying, but there had still been plenty of time to pull the name from his mouth. Ruthlessly was how Sherlock had done it—the cabbie's last agonized moments on this earth were used screaming _"Moriarty!"_

Mycroft's car pulled up as Sherlock stepped out of the school. They stood there for a moment. Stilling. Sherlock tilted his head to the side as he watched his brother (his diet was slipping a little bit again, the buttons looked tighter then normal). His face was rather pale, and his eyes were a little more white around the edges then normal…

"Were you actually worried?" He asked, his voice monotone and his tone more bored then curious as he glanced away and proceeded forward. He didn't have to wait to be asked as Mycroft stepped aside and allowed him access to the back of his car. Even as he did so, Sherlock could hear the sirens of the police in the distance.

Sherlock had solved the case—and much more. Lestrade could have the rest. Sometimes it was always a smart thing to record audio on a phone. He had sent the file to Lestrade already. He was done here.

Mycroft slipped back in to the car and the still running and they were pulling away.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson took his skull. He found it in the garbage out back. He set it in his room this time. She never went in to it, because his room was far worse then the kitchen and living room.

* * *

He gave a thought to the pill he had swallowed and his mouth went dry. Laying on his bed he turned his head to the side and looked to his… his secret spot. The urge to turn back to drugs had been getting stronger and stronger the longer his current… lacking continued.

Sherlock wasn't an addict. He knew that. But he was bored. And he'd do anything to end the boredom. Years of fruitless endeavors of trying to fill in the empty space merely led him to feel it more keenly. Language, people, crime, mystery—Mycroft had always been going on about how great he could be. Sherlock had had to listen to his inane drivel for years.

Of the two siblings, they both were intelligent. They were both geniuses. But Sherlock knew that of the two, Sherlock was the one unfit for society—but that also made him the one that was so brilliant. He was better at reading people. He was better at making connections. He was the one with so much more potential because, as Sherlock stated it, Mycroft wasted time, effort and brain power pretending to fit in with society.

Sherlock could be great. A great man. A good man.

But that was boring—he just wanted to be fulfilled.

In college, drugs had filled that hole. Those years had left holes in his memories, the sheer nothingness that came from thinking about them left him both frustrated and relieved. A strange combination, but irrelevant.

The process of coming clean off of drugs had been long, tedious… and encompassing. The hole of need had been filled with the time consuming process. But then he had recovered… and he had gone through so many things to pass the time. Cooking, experimenting, watching, learning—and he eventually settled in to solving crimes… much to Lestrade's annoyance.

But it had been some time since he had started this second fight against boredom. And he knew he was losing. It wasn't such a good through to acknowledge, but he acknowledged it all the same. Sherlock eyed bookcase that was sitting just a little ways away, thinking and knowing of the secret compartment he had made inside of the item.

He could revert at any time. Any time at all. And by the time anyone knew it would be too late and the spiral would have already started it's eventual descent.

Sherlock moved, slowly swinging his legs off the side of his bed as he sat up. He still wore his clothes from the night. The clothes that had survived that dull cabbie (but his not so dull benefactor—Moriarty) were still on him. Wrinkled from when he had laid down hours before. But his mind hadn't still enough for him to rest.

The hole (or maybe it was holes, by this point) inside of him seemed to be getting wider and wider. And he wasn't as satisfied solving this case then when he had first started his job as consulting detective.

He stood and moved to the bookcase and stood before it.

Should he? Dare he?

He just wanted to stop being so bored, was that so wrong?

Sherlock reached out, debating it in his head as his hand moved. Should he wait?—but what was he waiting for? Mycroft and Lestrade would be bothered by it—but that was dull. The aching unfulfilled feeling had always disappeared with drugs.

He… he…

Sherlock silently lifted the nicotine patches up from where they were resting from the fourth shelf up and stuck two on his arm in silence. He set the rest down and leaned forward, resting his forehead on the edge of a shelf as he closed his eyes and breathed.

He hadn't given in this time.

… but he didn't have that much time left to resist anyway. It was a count down… when would he be giving up?

* * *

_A/N: I wrote this during class. Figures. This is just an idea, I figured I should post it. I've gotten really in to this series and decided to give it a try. This semester is ending in two weeks, cheers._


End file.
